In Which Our Tale Begins
by Quillage
Summary: The Tale of The High King of Narnia and his Balladess.
1. In Which Our Tale Begins

**DISCLAIMING OF ALL OWNERSHIP: ...**pretty sure none of Narnia is actually mine._**  
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_**IN WHICH OUR TALE BEGINS**_

It always began in the same way and this evening particular evening was no exception.

"Mel, please tell it to us again!"

Peter half-heartedly reproached his sister, saying, "Lu, she'll have a tale if she wants to. Don't be a bother." Sure that his comment fell on deaf ears, he leaned back in his chair, rather sheepish at his inability to muster any sincerity.

Lucy, as expected, ignored her older bother and continued, slightly changing her tactics. "Mel, please! Jill hasn't heard it yet, and I just know she's been dying to. Not to mention she and Eustace are leaving tomorrow and I'm sure she would hate to miss it again."

"Oh well done, Lu. Well done indeed." The sarcasm laced in Edmund's voice was thick. "Sacrificing Pole here for your brilliantly subtle guilt play. I'm so proud." Lucy had the decency to blush.

However the pleading continued, and as the target of their efforts began to weaken, even the Professor and Polly joined in. Peter held out until she looked over at him, and then he said with a sigh, "I love the story as much as they do, Mel." She glared briefly at her traitor husband as he grinned cheerfully in response, his broad shoulders and large hands shrugging helplessly. Mel accepted the glass of bribery wine Polly offered, knocking into the arm of her chair and spilling on her skirt. She muttered low curses as her hair dragged slightly in to the glass on it's journey to her mouth and back. The clumsy young woman ignored the stifled laughs around her with stiff dignity. Peter smiled, taking in the wild dark hair and awkward actions with amused impatience. It was true what he said earlier; he did love this story and was anxious, as always, to hear it.

As everyone settled into their customary places, Mel sipped her wine again and began.

It never ceased to amaze her audience how quickly she transformed from their endearingly angled friend into a graceful, gifted Teller, her expressive alto voice captivating their wandering thoughts. Her stories were the best. _She _was the best. Which is why no one ever doubted she would always succumb to Requests. The favorite story of Narnia's Balladess was, oddly enough, her own story.

'_The Wondrous Tale of Our Beloved High King and His Lady Melisande_'

There once was a beautiful land called Narnia, which by the gift of Aslan, was saved from long imprisonment and oppression from Jadis, The White Witch. The saviors Aslan sent were four children from a different world to fulfill a prophecy and set Narnia back on her rightful path. Unbeknownst to all but Aslan, at the same time The Four entered through the War Drobe and Spare Oom, another Daughter of Eve came into Narnia through a small broom closet, falling into the largest of the Lone Islands.

Doorn's capital (indeed the capital of all three Lone Islands, if you recall our geography correctly) was a quietly bustling city. Though Jadis had declared herself the Empress of the Lone Island, she had only appeared a scant five times in the 100 Years of Winter. She cared little for the three small islands, and life had continued at a fairly normal, if slightly subdued pace. Indeed, it had been so long that Her presence was truly felt, that only a few noticed when Winter began to thaw. One of these was the leader of a small minstrel troupe. Rindale was a greying hard-head who on the surface seemed more fit to whip small squadron of armed troops into shape than a band of singers, jugglers, and mis-matched theater clowns. But underneath his grim set eyes and fierce moustache there lurked a suspicious laugh line in the corner of his mouth, and the angry red spots on his cheeks could be blamed more on purloined wine than any real gruffness.

His troupe was ragged and odd, but they offered the only entertainment on the islands, and therefore, in all Narnia. The members loved one another dearly and traveled together all over Avra and Droon for years (for everyone knows only sheep farmers lived on Farthinale, and penny pinching sheep farmers at that).

It was into this austere personage that the third Daughter of Eve, quite literally, ran into. Rindale felt a tug on his good heart at the sight of her and welcomed her into his meager camp once it became clear she was a sight balmy. ("Narnia? What White Witch? You sing ballads? Like King Arthur's; Arthurian ballads!" This last one made Rindale rather furious, for it was a known fact his Team wrote all their own ballads and skits, thank you very much. His pride was damaged for weeks.)

Time passed and The Four made tentative names for themselves in the known world. Though often scoffed at for being so young and inexperienced, they began to prove that their defeat of Jadis was not merely a stroke of luck. Treaties were made and broken. Treaties kept helped prove strong loyalties with countries on the Narnian Continent as well as those beyond the sea. Broken treaties were dealt with swiftly and firmly. Revelries were held and music was common, but justice was concise and punishments dealt accordingly. Such is the burden of any responsible leader, for vivacious joy and love must be balanced by a strong hand and gentle direction. Learning these ideals proved difficult at times, but The Four continued to grow into the roles of parents to their baby land.

Some three years after their ascension to the thrones Aslan had bequeathed them, it came to their attention that an unfamiliar tradition had been circling and was about to fall into their laps. Or, rather more specifically, the lap of the Young High King.

Tournaments had been conducted in the Outlying Lands of Telmar, Archenland, and Calormen. Galma had declined to host that year (to the relief of many, for the pirates had only recently left and the reportedly the entirety of the wharf still smelled like putrid bunk rat) so it fell to Narnia to take up the mantle. It would require the nation to host warriors from at least five lands and several other delegations in addition. The High King was expected to participate, a fact he severely disliked. To his mind, pitched battle was one thing, a necessary and ugly thing. But fighting, sword in hand, against an innocent 'enemy' for sport made the Boy Monarch slightly queasy. He was made to agree in the end, and his training accelerated at an uncomfortable pace. If he didn't place respectably, it would reflect weakly on the young country, and no one wished to risk that, not with Calormen's conquering eye straying idly in their direction.

-**I would prefer to not hear about how I made up the word "Balladess." I am aware. Suspension of disbelief, people. Suspension. Of. Disbelief.**


	2. In Which Our Tale Continues

**Hello, all. Just a quick note to say that this is all entirely book 'verse **Mostly because C.S. Lewis is God and I am not. **So for those of you who are mostly familiar with the movies, there will be things within my stories that are different/missing. That being said, I really can't stay on my high and mighty "The only canon is the book canon" horse for too long seeing as how I'm completely inserting a non-existent OC. Anyhoo, please feel free to read, review, favorite, and whatnot. I have this whole story written, as well as several Golden Age Era bit stories paged out, and would like to continue. If this idea appeals to you, let me know. If what I am writing is either so offensive or so horribly illegible that thought stops your poor heart, well then I don't know what to tell you. **

**Enjoy!**

**Oh, and again: Narnia is not mine because I am not God. C.S. Lewis is.  
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_In Which Our Tale Continues_

Governor Cloif of Doorn was invited with his court to attend the Tournament on the main land, but his wife had fallen ill and he did not wish to leave her until she recovered. He was, however, sending these… people. The Queen Susan had requested the presence of the Troupe to help master the ceremonies, and Cloif was beginning to wonder if the young royals knew exactly what they were getting. The Players were the stars of Narnia's first Grand Tournament Feasts, and they looked slightly deranged. There was Rindale, the grizzly old leader, and the strange Triplets, Griz, Grilt, and Gram. The three jugglers had pointed purple hats perched atop their flaming red hair and they stood front to back, rather than next to one another. Nearby stood Finkle, the singer with a velvety golden voice. She went by the stage name of Feyltea and lived in perpetual annoyance with her parents for giving such her an awful birth name.

Lastly there was Prist and his apprentice; the storytellers. Prist was tall and blond with a long scar running down his face, parallel to his nose. It was the only story he refused to tell. His apprentice stood quietly amongst the increasingly agitated Players as they were lectured extensively about proper etiquette and given details regarding the Tournament schedule. Three weeks of competition, book-ended by two Balls so festive they were becoming legendary months before they even occurred. The Troupe were to lead entertainment at the Introductory Feast and the Culmination Feast, and they were incredibly nervous. After all, they were going to perform for their royalty, as well as leave the Islands for the first time in their lives. However, burgeoning excitement far outweighed what anxiety they felt. The small company left two weeks after their meeting with Cloif, the governor shaking his head with trepidation as the ship broached the horizon.

Each day at Cair Paravel's ship port saw the arrival of an increasing number of foreign dignitaries and warriors. The Lone Islands retinue received little attention, not being nearly as interesting as the tall, bejeweled Calormenes with their pointed turbans and luxurious robes. A young faun eventually found the overwhelmed Islanders and greeted them warmly. His name was Melvin and he seemed in a perpetual hurry. The young fellow's tiny eyeglasses fairly trembled with the weight of his mission, and though the frantic activity of the dockyard discouraged conversation, once they reached the palace, he began talking animatedly at them.

Cair Paravel was a magnificent tribute to the glory of Narnian workmanship. The high tiers reached seemingly into the sky itself, and the glorious Eastern Sea sparkled behind the castle like a proud parent displaying it's child. The travelers marveled at the beautiful silver-inlaid ivory roof of the great hall, and could not help but stare at the fine clothing and rooms they passed.

They were only able to relax after being deposited in their chambers by Meticulous Melvin (Finkle had dubbed the poor faun this after he had insisted upon showing them every corner of their suites, including the washing facilities and pointing out the matching color of the throw pillows in conjunction with the curtains). They were being housed within the Palace itself because of their direct involvement in the Feasts, with their rooms situated in the farthest west tier of the immense and busy palace. Consequently, it was days before the displaced Islanders were able to find their way about. But find their way they did. Meals were held in various rooms depending on the placement of rooms, and time of training for the warriors. The extremely complicated eating schedule did nothing to appease the disgruntled Prist and Rindale, who counted on sweet coffee and dry wine at the exact same times every day. By the fourth day, things seemed to have gained a routine, and rehearsals officially began. The Troupe had a month before the Tournament, and much of it was spent in rehearsal and hunched over long bits of parchment, writing and re-writing new songs and bits.

The senior members of the Troupe were also scouting out other various acts to help fill in empty spaces, and conducted auditions in the evenings after dinner. This left the Triplets and The Apprentice to their own devices, which usually meant The Apprentice was left trying find her own devices as far away from the Triplets' devices as humanly possible. Their affinity for long-winded rhyming schemes and horrendous jokes left them in stitches and everyone else flinching in mental pain. So the young woman took to wandering the outreaches of the castle; the cool evening breeze offset by the sun-warmed earth from the day pulled her further away each evening. The Apprentice followed the sweeping sands that led into Narnia's Eastern Sea and along the shore line into the wooded area which eventually ended the beach and gave way to quiet glades. It provided quiet spaces for thoughts and respite from her boisterous friends, which at times she dearly craved.

The Troupe had become nearly family. The closest thing she had ever experienced of family, anyway, even in England. Her memories of The Other Place seemed to fade more each day, but she knew clearly that she had always been alone. Now there were six loud, opinionated, and strange family members who she dealt with daily. It was a strange idea, this consistent bickering love. They protected her fiercely, and seemed bent to Old Magic that she learn their trade. It became very apparent in a short time that storytelling was her great talent and Prist was a master teacher. Each one of the Players had taught her something, but Prist was the one who truly guided her. Somewhere between her confusion at stepping into Narnia and her 'escape' from them this evening, they had become family to her.

As she pondered her strange familial fate, she leaned against a tree, relaxing in the small glade and fading sunlight. She loved them all, very much. Even the damned juggling, tumbling, practical-joke-prone Triplets.

Startled out of her preoccupation by a quiet voice, she stood quickly. The young man opposite the clearing looked at her frankly, repeating his question. Did she mind company, or should he leave her be? No, she did not mind company, he was welcome to join her if he wished. The Apprentice studied the dark-haired young man, who really couldn't be much older than she. He explained that he often came here for a quiet moment, and when she apologized and offered to leave, he waved a hand, brushing away her concern. It wasn't, after all, that he particularly minded one person's presence now and again. She agreed quietly, muttering something about "too many nutters in one enclosed space." He laughed rather suddenly, startling her. He looked strongly-built and rather noble, but his laugh was loud with a small childish giggle still hidden in it. She smiled back at him, and after a moments silence, asked him about the Mer-People who supposedly had reappeared three years before. She assumed by his clothing he was Narnian and would know. Her curiosity had been aroused during the voyage to the mainland when _The Twin Moon_'s captain had regaled them with tales of the ancient race and the recent sightings. The long-limbed knight (for she guessed he was to fight in the Tournament judging from the broadsword at his side and rough leather jerkin) sat near her and told her about the beautiful sea folk and their haunting music. The sky darkened over their conversation and her companion suddenly looked about him and regretfully stood. He paused after they had exchanged awkward well-wishes and goodbyes, hesitantly asking if she would be there on the morrow. She said if he didn't mind, she would be, and his reply was a large smile and two words that triggered a brief memory of a lifetime ago:

"Bloody brilliant."


	3. In Which Our Tales Continues to Continue

**Disclaimer: Narnia is not in my wardrobe. Nor my closet, nor my bed, nor my mind. Damn you all.**

The High King waited impatiently for his companion to arrive. She was late today, and made him uncomfortably anxious. He pulled grass from it's roots until an annoyed driad sailed smoothly by, frowning at him. He guiltily apologized and turned to the sound of his friend laughing at the silent chastisement he had received. He scowled at her apparent joy in his red face and the young woman half-heartedly attempted to appear grave.

They walked, as always, along the small stream that ran through the clearing and talked. Often they talked of Narnia's lands and history, while other times they simply walked in silence. Once, after she had longingly talked of the library at the Governor's mansion on Doorn, he had brought her books, and now some evenings they took turns reading aloud. She would bring mending and arrows to fletch while he read poems and heard her humming one night, and begged her to sing aloud. The next evening he lazily sharpened his sword as she sang ballads and when she switched to storytelling, his hands paused in their task to watch her intently, taken by the simple sound of her voice.

The tall young man was never far from his sword, and his obsessive dedication to it's appearance and condition did not pass by her unnoticed. It simply fueled her assumption that he was a Narnian knight participating in the Tournament.

For of all the things they knew of each other, all the things they had discussed and laughed about, there had been no talk of who they were. They had no names, save for the childish nicknames bestowed in a fit of giggles one particularly tipsy night after good Narnian wine made it into their glade. He had called her a cabbage-headed domnoddy after she tripped over virtually nothing, and in his own laughter, promptly fell into the stream. Gasping through her tears of hysteria, she had suggested perhaps they ought to share the insult. He could be the royal cabbage, and she the noble domnoddy. This already ridiculous discussion deteriorated even further into irrational laughter that continued well into the night. They had awoken at dawn, embarrassed at their silly behavior and at finding themselves wrapped rather tightly in one another's arms. The awkwardness vanished, however, when she called him "Sir Cabbage," a tiny rebellious grin in her eyes. He stared, faintly surprised through his wine-fogged head, before smirking and calling, "Goodbye, my Lady Noddy!" The monikers shortened themselves and Cab and Nod comfortable shared their post-dinner hours together nearly every day for weeks.

It was clear to both of them they were there for the Tournament, and the Tournament alone. This, in turn, made it increasingly clear that one or both would eventually be leaving. They never spoke of this, and, conversely, spoke of everything and anything else. The King (never, of course, mentioning anything so obviously immaterial such as the fact that he was The King) grew more and more anxious as the Tournament approached, and the Balladess more and more silent. The days immediately prior were uncomfortable for the first time since The Naming Night. The night before the Beginning Feast both were quiet, knowing their time was at an end. After a few miserable attempts at conversation, the bells rang from Cair Paravel, signaling the end of the day and the beginning of Narnia's First Grand Tournament.

He stood, mumbling that he should turn in early and she looked away. He pulled at her hand until she was standing and they hugged awkwardly. She looked up and smiled, touching his pink cheek and said Thank You and Goodbye. Maintaining their standing tradition, he pulled one of her thick black braids and said, "Sleep tight this night, Nod." He left her as she sat at the base of their favorite Oak and the next Morning found her still awake, holding her braid tightly.

For we must remember, now, that seventeen in Narnia is not like seventeen in England. Though still young and naive in many ways, Narnian air had been maturing our hero and heroine for three years, and the feelings they had were strong and true. But all the Narnian air in the world cannot not take away the fear of new love and rejection, and their inability to speak frankly about their feelings was a direct reflection on the remaining vestiges of immature youth.


	4. In Which Our Tale Continues Even Further

**Disclaimer for the Heartless: Narnia. Not mine. **

The Apprentice did not attend the Opening Feast. She had no part in the night's events, and her heart had dropped, seemingly, into her stomach, so her claims of nausea were not completely false. The High King looked in weighty spirits and many of the court feared his performance would be disappointing. But as a whole, the Feast was declared to be beyond all expectations, and the Island Players were lauded as immensely talented and charming.

The Tournament was divided into three segments; archery, bare-hand combat, and sword play. The High King was the only one of his siblings to participate, though Susan had begged to be allowed into the archery competition. He had refused only on grounds of her age, and that a recent skirmish she had been caught in returning from Archenland had left her back a bit touchy. He stood his protective ground as she raged on, only calming when he promised she could enter the next year if she still wished to.

He performed admirably, besting his opponents in sword combat and the hand-to-hand segments. He only made the second round of archery by pure luck, barely saving himself from embarrassment with a lucky shot. As the second week approached, he again prepared to face evenings alone and in extra training. He missed the frizzled young woman a great deal, and wondered if she thought of him as often as he seemed to think of her.

The Balladess-in-Training could not shake her memories of the young knight, no matter how busy she kept herself. It was infuriating, really. Now was not a good time for insane romantic notions. The first and second weeks of Tournament had passed, and she felt her excitement for Final Rounds and her nervousness for the End Feast growing. She had a part, a story, in the Feast. It was the story of Queen Swanwhite (incidentally, a favorite of her knight's) and it was to be her first public performance. Rindale seemed as nervous as she, despite Prist's stoic confidence. Her interest in the Tournament itself had been minimal to this point, but the tales of Young High King she heard throughout town boosted her curiosity. His skill with a sword was unexpectedly immense considering his age. He had placed third in the bare-hand competition, and at the end of the week would face a thirty-some year-old warrior from Terebinthia in the Final Sword Comabt Match. The Glaman was a large, pirate-raised fighter whose swordsmanship was only outmatched by his fascinatingly large appetite.

The Apprentice was, in a way, obligated to attend the Final Match, for she would be performing for her Kings and Queens that night, and if Rindale made good on his promise to introduce her, she would ought to be able to talk intelligently about the Tournament (or, at least, _one_ of the matches of the Tournament). Not to mention, it would make a brilliant story. "A bloody brilliant story," she muttered, rolling green eyes at herself when sentimental memories and thoughts flooded her mind. No time for foolishness, dolt, no time for distractions. If the Troupe did well a second time, they would be remembered for years to come, and highly sought after. It was imperative for everyone to focus. Focus.

A large piece of bread smacked her in between the eyes, prompting a low growl from her throat as she glared at Grilt. The other two smiled innocently as Finkle sighed and resumed rehearsal.

Narnians filled the stadium, waiting anxiously to see their High King stand against the ferocious Galman. The Troupe had seats of honor in the front row, just west of the Royal Siblings. The two warriors entered in their armor, bowed to one another, and began. I will not detail the fight for you now, for that is not our story today (anyway, Edmund could probably do it better). Suffice to say, it remains a fight that Narnian legends have been built upon to this day. The Young High King was an extremely skilled swordsman, graceful on his feet and quick with his heavy weapon, despite facing a man twice his size and years.

His movements seemed familiar to The Apprentice, the way he bounced on his feet, waiting for the Galman to resume his attack. The quick familiarity with his sword, how he swung the heavy broadsword as though it was a feather-light extension of his arm. The broadsword. That sword. She knew that sword. It was His sword. She knew that sword and she knew him. It was Him. The realization came hard and with no warning. She stared, disbelieving her own eyes as the panting combatants agreed to a brief respite. The Narnians cheered their King, and as he turned, removing his helmet to acknowledge his people, he saw her.

The High King tore his eyes from her face, waving to the crowds, and with a last look at the green eyes, retreated to his corner. His nervousness inexplicably quieted the moment he saw her. His attendants exchanged concerned looks over his head. Their High King was smiling like a idiot. Like an idiot child, like a fool.

Back out on the sparring grounds, he strode over to the Troupe's western corner in the stands. Stopping in front of them, he bowed and held up his shield in his left hand, pulling off his helmet with his right. The High King of All Narnia placed his helmet in the hands of the Young Balladess and leaned forward. In front of all, he placed a gentle kiss on her forehead and underneath the uproarious cheers whispered, "Wait for me, Nod." She stared dumbly at him before placing the helmet on her King's sleek, sweating head. The King strode away, leaving Mel to listen to the Triplets' catcall and Finkle's loud hooting laugh. Even Prist had a smirk on his pale face.

The second bout lasted not even a half of the hour. The High King threw down the Galman before anyone even knew what had happened. The Narnian helped his opponent to his feet, bowing in acknowledgement his skill and bravery. The crowd was deafening, even the foreign spectators were avidly admirable of the remarkable young King's skill.

The Apprentice was on her way to a final rehearsal before he even had a chance to try and find her again. In her haste to escape the volatile situation, she somehow managed to forget what she would be walking into. Excruciatingly snide remarks some how made it into Finkle's adventure song, while two of the Triplets paused in their gymnastic juggling routine to dramatically re-enact the scene from earlier while Gram made caustic commentary. By the end of the horrendously unproductive rehearsal her face was permanently stained red and the others were still squeezing out a few last tears of laughter.

The Feast was one that none present would ever forget. The table was filled with everything from coffee, wine and fresh milk, to lobsters in delicate rosemary butter, spiked wild boars and vegetables, to fruit from all over the known world. The High King's defeat of a seasoned warrior twice his age was currently the Tale of choice round the Great Hall. The main character in the story was seated at the center of the room, up on the dais in between his siblings. He was searching for a familiar dark head. A great table had been moved onto the dais and at this sat the Royal Four with their dearest friends and advisors. At the other end of the full room was a makeshift stage upon which Rindale stepped, gesturing for silence. He spoke briefly of the food, congratulated the three winners, and thanked The Four on behalf of all the visitors for their hospitality. The High King then stood and spread his arms.

"Friends, enjoy this food and entertainment. It has been a joy to have you all here and let us never forget that Aslan has blessed our country beyond our comprehension. Let us always be for Aslan and for Narnia!"

Cheers erupted, then the chatter resumed and he sat back down for a moment, nursing bruises and cuts spread over his body from the last few weeks of competition. He looked curiously about him, paying particular attention to the stage across from the way. Seeing none there, he made his way through the congratulatory crowd to the Western Hall on a hunch. Sure enough, there they were.

The Troupe led by Rindale, the ones who had performed at the First Feast were holding a last-minute rehearsal intermixed with a rousing (and slightly threatening) pep talk from the marvelous singer, Feyltea. Except there was an extra body he had not seen that Initial Feast.

The Apprentice was pacing the Western Hall rehearsing her story when the far doors were thrown open. Her green eyes met his, and the nervous constriction in her throat grew exponentially.

Rindale moved forward eagerly. "Your Majesty! What an honor, by the Lion, a pre-show visit! To what do we owe this… unexp-… honor… ah." Rindale's question died in his mouth as the Young Man blushed, quickly moving his stare from the girl opposite him to the floor. For her part, Prist's Apprentice looked suddenly sick.

Prist silently placed a hand on his charge's shoulder, and after a pause rounded up the others until all that remained were The High King and The Balladess.

He spoke first. A question.

" Nod?"

"Mel, actually. Cab." It was not a question.

"Peter."

"Yes, thank you, I assumed but your courtesy is overwhelming."

Peter smiled at her sarcasm, relieved at the familiar irk he felt whenever she mocked him. He reached forward and pulled on her braid as she simultaneously stepped forward, tripping on an errant chair and flying into his arms, gracefully as a dancing dwarf (which, as we all know, dwarves are simply terrible dancers). Peter looked down at her and quite impulsively planted a heavy kiss right on her mouth. Mel sputtered against him until he pulled away, mildly confused. She closed her eyes in determination and grabbed at his wide shoulders, tugging until he was close enough to kiss her again. Which he did, happily.

The rest of the night passed in a blur for the two. Somewhere between Mel's performance (Here Ed and Lu insistently are interjecting 'Which was simply marvelous!' and other such praise, so is that out of the way now, hm?) and Peter's glowing face, a Feast was held. Neither of them could attest to how well it went, nor what music was played, but others say it was wonderful. In truth, the Troupe went down in history for their songs and tumbling and King Edmund and the Queens Susan and Lucy looked more beautiful than the stars, but the court only had eyes for their Magnificent High King and his Love.


	5. In Which Our Tale Ends

**Disclaiming of All Worldly Possessions: Or just Narnia. Cuz it ain't mine, tards.**

The next year they were married and, much to Peter's delight and Mel's chagrin, the Troupe performed a new routine about the incredibly romantic meeting and subsequent courtship of the High King Peter and the Lady Melisande. The song was lovely and tender, and only the few that knew better could detect the laughter behind three identical pairs of innocently raised red eyebrows.

Lady Melisande continued her training under Prist until he declared her quite beyond him, and in the only show of emotion outside of his Storytelling, hugged Mel hard and whispered something in her ear that brought both tears and smiles to their faces.

High King Peter participated in two other Tournaments before refusing flat -out, declaring them "not his cup of tea." In the privacy of his siblings and wife he declared them "all sorts of inane foolishness." He became, in time, the most feared warrior in the known world and a most remarkable King.

And that, my dear ones, is where our story pauses (it does not end, of course, there is always too much story to tell for any one to end). They all had all sorts of wonderful adventures after that, and quite a bit of fun as well. Cab and Nod were very happy together, and when it came time for them to return to The Other Place, Aslan allowed them to continue their journey together even then, but that is another story for another night.

All was silent for a moment, then Lucy heaved a great sigh. The fire cracked slightly at Peter's feet, his long legs ever closer as he slouched in his chair. The Seven Friends stirred from the Tale Spell (as Jill called it) the Eighth member had cast. Polly looked fondly at her King sitting across from her, eyes only on his wife. He looked, somehow, every inch his royalty with his mussed hair and shirt tails out. His cheeks were pink with wine as a great boy's yawn escaped his deep chest. Mel had never looked much like a great Queen, and now was no exception. Ironically enough, it was her clumsy behavior and driad's hair that had endeared her to the people of Narnia more than any sleek manner and straightforward beauty ever could have. One of the many reasons Peter would gladly fall at her feet any day. Somehow this unlikely girl had found something inside of her that pushed others to respect and love her. Peter truly believed that even if they had not married, she would have somehow become a Queen, or at least a leader, of Narnia anyway.

Edmund broke the final quiet moments with a serious look on his smooth, unscarred face. "So, I guess it's good you're so damnably clumsy, eh Mel? Otherwise you'd have never fallen into the broom closet, and Peter wouldn't have fallen into kissing you."

Mel sighed, pitching pillow after pillow at the others until they stopped howling with laughter.

Peter stood, glass in hand.

"Come on, Nod. Let's get some more wine, and then you can tell the story of how Ed got that nasty scar on his leg from a baby hedgehog. That one always cheers you up."

End.


End file.
